Hawthorn had lost his motley livery,
The naked twigs were shivering all for cold;
And dropping down the tears abundantly,
Each thing (methought) with weeping eye me told
The cruel season, bidding me withhold
Myself within, for I was gotten out
Into the fields, whereas I walked about.
(stanza 3)
a good set of lines for a rainy day in late January
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